


Recognized

by often_adamanta



Series: 12 in 12 Challenge [3]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Female Character of Color, First Meetings, Gen, Not Beta Read, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, Sheriff's Secret Police, Temporary Character Death, Twins, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6230605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/often_adamanta/pseuds/often_adamanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Listeners, during the break, I just met our newest intern, Priti. Ah, to be young again and looking at our modest studio with wide eyes and earnest enthusiasm. It really takes me back. Priti is a welcome addition to our little radio family, and I know she will help to make our program even better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recognized

When all the paperwork had been officially accepted, signed with Priti’s own blood and howled at by the city council as is traditional, Intern Maureen introduced her to Cecil. 

“I’m the oldest intern here,” Maureen said, “So you’re my responsibility until you learn the ropes.”

“Ropes?” she’d asked. Her knotwork in scout training had never been very good.

“Metaphorical ropes,” Maureen clarified. “Well, most of the time. You better learn fast, too, because Gran says my stars don’t look too good this week.” 

Priti nodded, eyes wide as she looked around the station. She’d heard Cecil describe it, of course, but she’d never been inside. Doors lined every inch of the hallway, so many more than she’d expected or even seemed physically possible. 

Maureen sighed like she could tell that Priti wasn’t listening. “Never open the recording room door when the On Air sign is lit up.” 

Priti nodded seriously. As angry and blood red as it was now, dormant, she could only imagine how it looked lit up. It would be hard to miss. 

Maureen nudged the door open easily with her hip, ancient scrolls tucked against one side and perfectly brewed coffee, steaming slightly in the chilled air of the studio, held steady in her other hand. She cocked an eyebrow at Priti, who realized she’d been standing there too long and dashed forward into the room. 

“Got your coffee, Boss,” Maureen said, “And the news.” 

“Thank you, Maureen,” Cecil said. He glanced over at Priti, who straightened up her back and wondered if this was it, but then Cecil looked away and took his coffee from Maureen’s outstretched hand and took a sip, sighing in pleasure after he swallowed. 

Priti had served Cecil thirty-two times during her after-school job at the Pinkberry, but Cecil’s glance was blank, as if they were anonymous strangers passing in a huge and busy city instead of citizens of the same, small desert town. 

(To be fair to Cecil, a dozen of those times Carlos had been in view of the windows, and that didn’t really count because everyone knew that Cecil didn’t look anywhere else when the scientist was in range. Priti had been very impressed at how he’d eaten the entirety of his frozen yogurt and responded to texts without ever once looking away.)

“Boss,” Maureen said, “This is our new intern, Priti.” 

Cecil looked at her again, but now instead of a blank expression, he was smiling, genial despite showing all his teeth. “It’s so nice to meet you,” Cecil said and held out his hand. 

And it had happened, irrevocable: she’d been Recognized. 

She took his hand, shaking it firmly, and every hair on the back of her neck stood up. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” she said, voice only quivering a little bit, “Thank you for the opportunity to work here.” 

“I love the youthful enthusiasm that new interns bring our little radio station,” Cecil said, grinning now. He raised an eyebrow at Maureen and teased, “Where did your naive optimism go?” 

“Station management took it,” she said. 

“They do love to drain any positive emotions out of the ambient atmosphere,” Cecil agreed, turning to Priti, solemn. “Try not to linger near their door. I mean, when your duties don’t require it, of course.” 

“Yes, sir,” Priti said.

“Let me know if you need anything else, boss,” Maureen said and started to drag Priti out of the room, not trusting her to move on her own this time.

“Thank you, Maureen,” Cecil said, and added, “Thank you, Intern Priti,” even though she hadn’t done anything yet, and Priti’s eyes watered, but she choked down her tears. It wasn’t her designated day of the week to cry. 

“You okay?” Maureen asked when the door was closed behind them. Her voice was brusque but kind. 

“Yeah,” Priti said, and just saying the word made it feel true. She took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Good,” Maureen said, “You’re shadowing me in the booth today. Don’t get comfortable, though. The real work starts tomorrow.” 

“Okay,” Priti agreed. 

When they went into the booth during the show, Cecil smiled at them and waved, his gaze direct and familiar.

Priti smiled back as she watched him work. 

*

Priti’s family was waiting for her when she got home that night. 

“We heard you on the radio,” her youngest sister said. 

“Cecil said your name! He knows your name!” Her youngest brother exclaimed. 

Her mother smiled, tears rolling down her face, and touched Priti’s cheek as if she would have changed physically. “Go wash up for dinner,” her mother said through her fixed smile, tears spilling over. 

“Yes, Mata,” she said as her oldest younger sister hugged her while two little brothers jumped up and down and shouted questions about Cecil and the radio and her first day there. 

*

The last time Priti remembered dying was on Valentine’s Day, although she knew it had happened before. Her and her older brother had gone to see a movie because Sai had a crush on the boy who operated the popcorn machine. 

She didn’t remember what happened, only that the smell of popcorn had made her nauseated for the next month, but when she had made it back home, she realized that her brother was not there. He hadn’t come back. 

Her mother’s mouth tightened but she hadn’t said a word, and then the whole family went on as usual. 

She hadn’t seen him until a month later. She looked up from the cash register and froze, four pennies and a dime clutched tight in her hand. The man before her had dark skin and a wide smile with a gap between the front of his teeth and laugh lines that crinkled around the eyes. 

He was so different that she didn’t even know how she could tell, but the knowledge was there in her mind: this had been her brother, and now he was not. 

The stranger’s smile had never faltered while she stared until her twin sister Aarti shoved her gently and she handed over the coins, damp from her sweaty palm. The man had thanked her, polite, and then left.

She stared at the round shapes from where the coins had pressed into her palm and left a fleeting impression. This is what their lives were like right now. They pressed as hard as they could against the surface of the world, but it would spring back as if untouched because they didn’t matter in this world. Right now she was Priti, but eventually she would wake up from being fed to the wolves at the zoo or crushed under the Glow Cloud’s animal castoffs and be someone else entirely. She’d have a new face and an appropriately vague memory of the past that would slip away as she settled into a new life, and then she would be someone else. 

Her sister shoved her again, and she tore her eyes away to ring up the next customer.

That night she took her library card and her machete and made her way cautiously to the help wanted section next to the main counter at the library. 

*

Aarti was studying in their shared room when Priti finally disentangled herself from all her other siblings and went to wash up. 

Aarti hadn’t been speaking to her since they’d disagreed about becoming interns. Twins usually worked together - they had shared the job at the Pinkberry - but Aarti had refused to even apply. 

“Our class is studying moon magic right now, and it’s really interesting,” Aarti had said, “And I want to finish the copy of _A Canticle for Leibowitz_ Tamika lent me. How can I do that and be an intern?” 

Priti thought the real reason was that Aarti wanted to become one of the secret police, but that was, obviously, a secret. Keeping that ambition to yourself was practically the first entrance test. No one who said they wanted to be a member of the secret police was whisked away in the night with nothing left behind but a single white rose, thorns covered in thick, congealing blood. 

Aarti hadn’t told her, either. Priti had guessed from the way Aarti had taken to wearing hats, the brims pulled down to shade her eyes, and the way she ducked into the backroom of the Pinkberry to count stock all thirty-two times Cecil had come by, overly cautious to avoid being Recognized. 

There was a reason for the balaclavas. No one who Cecil Recognized was a member of the secret police. It was useless to even try. Secret police died in the line of duty too often to make it worth training someone who would stay dead instead of turning up to work the next day, possibly changed, possibly not, but ready to work all the same. 

“I was hoping you’d change your mind,” Aarti said eventually. 

Priti shook her head. 

“I was being selfish,” Aarti said, “Because I’ll miss you.” 

“Eventually you won’t,” Priti said. She shrugged. “You’ll forget me, and it won’t matter.” 

“You don’t have to be Recognized or Remembered to matter,” Aarti said, with a ring of power in her voice that made Priti wonder if training began long before any roses were plucked, bare-fingered, from the ground. 

“Maybe not,” Priti said, because she wouldn’t disrespect Aarti’s choice even when it was the opposite of her own, “But it’s what I want.” 

“Then I’m happy for you,” Aarti said, standing up and coming over to hug her. When Aarti pulled back, Priti could see her eyes for the first time in weeks and knew that she meant it. 

*

The next day, Priti got up and dressed quietly by the light of one lamp. Aarti was sleeping in a hoodie, drawstrings pulled tight and face hidden against her pillow. She biked to work, watching the sun catch on the horizon and have to fight it’s way free, and grinned as she pushed open the double doors into the cool, dark of the station. 

“Priti, hi!” Cecil greeted her when she stuck her head into the breakroom. “I need you to get me something from the Archives before the show. Do you mind?” 

“It’s the door that smells like lemons,” Maureen said, “How are you at spelunking?” 

Priti smiled and shrugged. “I have my scout badge.” 

Maureen handed her an old gas lantern to hold in one hand and a small canary cage for the other. Priti eyed the dead bird. “If it wakes up again,” Maureen said, “Run like hell. And good luck!”

“Thanks,” she said, because it was kind of Maureen to share her luck when radio interns never had very much, but she doubted that she’d need it. She felt solid and anchored to her bones, like she could do anything. 

She found the door that smelled, to her, of citrus peels and floor cleaner. Priti opened it, her lantern light failing to penetrate the threshold, failing to cast aside the slab of pitch black shadows and reveal the room beyond, and stepped inside.

**Author's Note:**

> I started to think about how the population of a small town really couldn't handle constant, wholesale slaughter like Cecil describes and this is one possible explanation. The truth is no doubt even weirder. 
> 
> I'm only on episode 42, so this might have been jossed already, but shhh. Ignorance is bliss, and spoilers summon the hooded figures from the dog park.


End file.
